I'm really struck by how perfectly Orwell is able to describe certain feelings and facets of childhood. "The good and the possible never seemed to coincide." It's a fascinating mix of banality, sadistic headmasters, loneliness, nostalgia, classist snobbishness, and the potent confusion, camaraderie, and competition that comes with young boys growing up. In this autobiographical essay, Eric Arthur Blair (who will henceforth be referred to by his pen name, George Orwell) relates his childhood from the ages of six through thirteen, and his experiences at St. I doubt they're even remotely as awful nowadays, but something about the idea of it is inextricably tied in my mind to tales of woe, underfeeding, harsh discipline, and malicious snobbery like this one. Not for the first time, I'm eternally grateful not to have been alive in the 1910s, and not to have gone to a boarding school. I certainly don't envy Eric Arthur Blair's upbringing, but it makes for interesting reading, and by the end I felt as though I'd journeyed through his childhood with him. This essay may well have been called "Such, Such was the Unending Mistreatment and Bleakness." That's not to say that it isn't great, though, because it really is, in a fascinating, grim sort of way. Not for the first time, I'm eternally grateful not to have been al PRE-REVIEW, 6/6/16: Don't trust the title: there's no joy here. PRE-REVIEW, 6/6/16: Don't trust the title: there's no joy here.
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